


Gastton?

by Clueingforlooks221B



Series: Gafou Coffee Shop AU [1]
Category: Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Barista LeFou, Flirt Gaston, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Model Gaston, Modern AU, gafou
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 12:52:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10465470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clueingforlooks221B/pseuds/Clueingforlooks221B
Summary: G a s t…LeFou’s marker stops, bleeding a hole into the right side of the t.Is there another t?Hm.Right…Gahstahn. Gaaahhstounn? He rolls the name around on his tongue without vocalizing it, but each time he repeats his name he gets more and more confused.“Problem?” Gaston leans close, peering over LeFou’s hand to his cup.“Ah, no no.” LeFou holds the cup closer to him and tilts it so he can only see it. “Just, uh, blanked out.” He drags out his words to stall time, but is still no closer to figuring out where to begin to spell this man’s name.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is a cliché, but someone had to do it.

The first time LeFou saw him, he did an automatic double take. There was no way someone could be that perfect. But his second gander only confirmed what he thought he saw, and perfect doesn't even begin to accurately describe this man. 

Deep rosewood locks swirl and loop into his low ponytail. Today sunlight melts inside and bleaches each strand. The brighter boisterous rays leap out to delicately pluck frizz from his hair. Somehow the effect robs the oxygen from LeFou. 

Frizz is something this that compliments this man extremely well; but dwelling deeper on the thought, LeFou isn't surprised. What could this man not pull off? He’s wearing beige on beige on beige and still looks incredible! Granted, chiffon peeks out of his vest and there is crimson on his coat. But it’s a style LeFou has never seen. It’s something he knows he couldn't pull off, nor anyone else he has ever come across up to this point in his life. 

Each stride alludes confidence that scatters off the man’s broad shoulders, spilling into the air around him. The further the pulsing cloud drifts from him, the more it tumbles into something… darker. 

LeFou is positive that it is thick apprehension the man pollutes the oxygen with; he gathers this from the way everyone, men and women, gawk and splutter around him. They stutter to a halt the second they see him, but quickly shake themselves to keep walking to appear dignified. 

Tripping over their own feet is what most end up doing. 

It is either because of their hearts outracing their limbs, or their enlarged pupils remaining glued to every surface of the man instead of the road in front of them. 

Even he, yards away behind abundant double doors, can feel the massive shift in the environment outside. 

Torrid flames sprint down his tongue the second the man’s figure steps into the frame of the caffe’s windows. Ever since he has seen him, his heart jolts when he sees someone with ebony hair. 

LeFou wishes he could see his eyes, because he knows they are gorgeous. He bets they are a deep cobalt, or a tart apple green; or some combination of the two hues. Maybe the man is sweet and kind past his hard exterior. Of course the man can be this way outwardly, LeFou doesn't know him. 

He only ever seen him smirk on the rare occasion. But he usually keeps to himself, shoulders held high and pupils never skirting out of the corners of his eye to watch people gaping at him. He knows everyone’s eyes are on him. 

A stormy sea streaked in silver moonlight is another way he has imagined the strangers irises. Perhaps he is rustic and troubled… 

Regardless, even the zoomed out version of the stranger makes the fire slivering across his tongue leave soot in its place that murders all the saliva from his mouth and throat. 

Even though he has seen this man just about every day, he has to remind himself to keep breathing every time. But just because he cautions himself, it doesn't mean that his lungs or throat cooperate. Or heart. Or brain even, for that matter. 

In the beginning he made the mistake of attempting to tackle inhaling before the stranger was gone and, because of this, ended up choking. The fire leaping on his tongue violently shifted to its next victim, his face. The heat wedged and burned between the cells in his cheeks, producing stark watered-down wine that pooled across his face. The stained wine blossomed into a vibrant rose with each passing moment of his lungs curling in on themselves; their screeches and nails ripping their insides to shreds. Sweat licked down his face, further serving to deepen the richness of the rose. 

Only until the man is out of sight do the ashes cripple into dust, left to flee off his tongue with every rough exhale. 

The stiff air slowly trickles down the street behind the man, sluggishly crawling around him once more. 

For a moment, like always, everything seems unmoving to LeFou. The environment is a painting, everything motionless and one dimensional, thick and stuck in place. 

Yet his body is everything but that, his heart curled up and hyperventilating in his esophagus.

Harsh squeals ram the world back into focus for LeFou, everything jaggedly slamming back into place. Every single day the women he works with explode when he is fully out of sight. When he first started working at the caffe he assumed that this would eventually stop, or at least their squealing would fade into quiet chattering. 

Yet, he still has the same reaction he did the first time he ever saw the man. It’s hard not to. 

All three of them are on the furthest end of the counter dangling dangerously off it, their hips wedged into the counter. Their heads were extended as far as they could go seconds ago, necks straining towards the window to catch the last glimpse of the man. 

Simultaneously they break from the counter, twisting to squawk in each other’s faces about how handsome he is. 

Colors intensify, becoming so bright they pinch his irises when LeFou drifts his attention back out the windows again. He doesn't listen to them anymore. LeFou doesn't have a problem with them or anything, the triplets and him get along fine. But one can only take so much wailing and yowling of “oh why won’t he come into our café?” 

At least he keeps his longings in his head. 

A lagging humid exhale skips out of his nostrils, combing down the whispers of his shaved mustache. He leans into the palm of his hand, elbow sliding down along the polished wooden countertop, sinking his face deeper into his palm. 

The stranger always comes after morning rush hour, so LeFou figures the man sleeps in. He must to get some, definitely beneficial, beauty sleep. 

A large part of LeFou too wishes the man would come in, but he knows he would end up mirroring everyone else’s reactions to the man. He’d be way worse than them; he can’t even handle being behind closed doors and seeing him through a window! 

Besides, LeFou knows he doesn't have a chance. 

It brings him satisfaction, though, to know that the same fate lies for the ladies down the counter. 

Mirth tugs at one of the corners of his lips as he peers at them flailing around out of the corner of his eyes. Their pitches claws at his ear drums, yet it only serves to make LeFou’s smirk stretch. 

There’s no way the handsome stranger could deal with that sound, regardless to how beautiful the woman making it is. It’s never going to happen, definitely not with them. 

——————————————

Watching him strut by the window once is a common occurrence. 

It’s watching him stomping back that’s not. 

The stranger never comes back the way he ventures off. At least, not when LeFou is still on his shift. LeFou opens at five in the morning and leaves at two, so the man could walk back hours later for all he knows. 

His jaw is tightened, shoulders drawn into his carmine leather jacket. LeFou has never seen him look irked but, of course, he still manages to look hot.  
That brisk sweltering spark smudges between his bold brows, creating a thick line that breaks between them. The irritation squats on his eyelids next, casting onyx shadows over his eyes.

His expression makes LeFou’s heart kick his ribcage roughly. 

Peach lips thin as he sharply scans the stores alining the street, his jaw now tucked into the lapels of his coat. An arctic breeze skates along the tips of his ears, loosely running its icy fingers through the top of his swooped hair. 

LeFou watches a thin strand of hair that’s escaped from his obsidian ribbon that ties his hair back. The hair races to mingle with the stubble on the man’s cheek.  
Abruptly he feels a new presence that is demanding his attention, scratching at his irises. 

LeFou glances towards the direction he feels the sizzling. 

The man is staring at LeFou, blankness now smoothing out the previous rough ridges on his face.

He can’t help it. His entire face is devoured in a blaze, and his ears are boiling. His lips open, but his teeth keep them together so he is only gaping slightly. 

The man’s head tilts up out of his jacket, brows arching. His lips mirror them. Pronunciation lines skitter back across his forehead, and one side of his heavy lips twitch up as he struts towards the café. 

LeFou can’t believe it. The man’s never looked the café’s way and is one day suddenly coming in! Why? 

Who cares the man's coming in! 

Oh wait, 

No. 

No no no no no, he can’t do this!

LeFou’s veins start trembling, vibrating his blood. He whips around seeking out someone, anyone. But it’s a weekday so he's working alone, and there is not one single customer in the shop. Every canvas in the shop blurs together with how hastily he searches around. 

LeFou moves his foot, twisting to turn towards the back room. He’s about to take off, but then curses and halts. He can’t do this. He’s the only one in the shop. And the man already saw him! 

Sharp ringing erupts, bouncing off all the empty space in the shop. LeFou barely manages to catch his shoulders from fully leaping, but they definitely gave a small noticeable jump. 

The bell gives a few last rings above the door as it falls shut, the heels of the man’s boots drowning out the last calls of it. The shoes clicking, thankfully, breaks any awkward silence that may have occurred. 

Oxygen thins and quivers as LeFou hauls it into his lungs through his nose, chest rising as he forces himself to turn around. 

The man is squinting up at the menu above LeFou, a short thoughtful hum skipping between his closed lips. 

LeFou switches his weight from foot to foot slightly, debating whether or not to say something. He feels he already missed his opportunity, and doesn’t want to disturb the man’s thought process. Besides, littering in the speckles of his irises LeFou can still see drab irritation. 

He rips his eyes off him as the man starts to turn his head towards LeFou. He attempts to think neutral thoughts to keep the scarlet in his face down, and to not at all think about the fact that the perfect man he’s been watching is right in front of him and staring at him. 

“Black eye, sixteen ounces.” His baritone pitch rushes in before the meaning of his words do, shocking LeFou to his core. 

Meanwhile the man reaches in the back pocket of his olive green jeans, slamming his hand down on the table. Underneath his large palm peeks out a ten dollar bill. 

LeFou whistles at the rare order, the denotation of the words catching up to him. A coffee with two expresso shots? Just what does this guy do that requires that much energy? 

When he looks back up he realizes he momentarily forgot just who was ordering, and immediately regrets whistling. The man is narrowing his eyes at him, and LeFou’s response to this action is akin to him shooting across the table and choking LeFou. 

He breaks the scorching eye contact before his face gets any darker. “Okay,” LeFou fishes around for the marker inside his apron pocket, his other hand reaching for a cup. “And uh,” LeFou removes the pen, snapping the cap off. “can I get a name for that order?” He balances the cup on his knee, hoisting it back up and scrawling out the man’s order on the cup. 

After two minutes of the man not saying anything, he glances up at him through his lashes. The man quirks a manicured brow down at him. Had he not heard him? “Please?” He squeaks out as an afterthought. His blood broils at his tone, and he peers down at the back of the man’s hand on the counter. He can’t look, not after he just squeaked. 

Focusing on the veins on the strangers tan hand, he ponders if this painful silence is worth him knowing his name. 

Partially he asked because it’s a habit for him to do so. The other half of him really wants to know his name so he can stop referring to him as a stranger and “the man”. 

He’s probably fed up that LeFou asked since the place is dead. Maybe he’s in a rush? 

LeFou traces along the creases of his leather jacket with his pupils, fighting his blush down from catching sight of the curled chest hair bursting out of his ruffled ivory topic. 

When he reaches the man’s face one more, his face is hard. Lips inclined in a tight frown and eyes devoid of all emotions but exasperation, he barks, “Oh, yes haha very funny.” He waves his hand dismissively, vowels dripping in burgundy. “Never heard that one before.” 

LeFou blinks. His lips part again, but all he can manage to do is blink. 

Say something LeFou, anything! His brain screeches at himself, shaking each crevice of his brain for any consonant that he can blend into a coherent sentence. But all that wrestles through his consciousness is inquiries of what he did wrong and what is this man talking about. 

His confusion is clear as day on his face. LeFou was always an easy book to read. 

The stranger gawks, his empty hand banging on the wooden counter on the other side of LeFou. He has him caged in, the question biting down in the little space between the two, “You mean you don’t know who I am?” The stranger leans closer, devouring LeFou in shades of sable from his cool shadow. LeFou is thankful the man is taller or else he wouldn't have dared to breathe. He’s already having a hard time now doing so. 

For a second LeFou almost feels ashamed for not knowing the answer from the man’s tone. He feels like he’s in elementary school all over again, where everyone else always knew the answer but he never did. 

Slowly, LeFou hesitantly shakes his head as he glimpses up at the man. He picks his spine up, the little confidence he has rattling it. It’s not his fault he doesn't know who this guy is. 

“What? How? I’m everywhere!” The stranger gazes directly into LeFou’s eyes, clearly not believing him. His palms launch off the counter, and he dramatically gestures wildly around the shop. 

LeFou blinks and glances around, vision skirting among the short wide wooden tables and artwork hanging on the wall. LeFou is beginning to become unamused; he doesn't see any traces of the man anywhere besides the crooked cracked sidewalk he walks along across the street almost everyday. 

The man clenches his perfect straight teeth, towering himself over LeFou again. LeFou struggles to hold a straight posture as he holds eye contact with the man’s gorgeous brown speckled eyes floating in a raging turquoise sea. 

“Is this one of those things where you pretend not to know who I am to seem cool? To get my attention?” 

Seems to be working if that was the case. If LeFou was a braver and dumber man he would have mumbled so.

Instead he shakes his head, backing away from the man to stare directly into his eyes. “I have no idea who you are, only that I have seen you occasionally walking past here.” Desperation bleeds out of his punctured high-pitched tone, and he finally seems to have an effect on the man. 

The man’s lips soften, irises fading from their previous dark hunter green hue. 

His mouth hangs open, air stuttering out of it. Finally broken syllables flounder out, “But how? I don't understand. I’ve been sexiest man alive two times, in more commercials then I can remember, on sides of busses and on billboards, made guest appearances on game shows and been interviewed, and in every fashion show; I have 38.9 million followers on Instagram and 34 million on Twitter, how have you not seen me? It’s impossible not to! I’m everywhere!” 

Oh he’s a model. Well now it all makes sense. Of course he is, how could he had not guessed that? 

“Oh,” LeFou exhales, and for a second can’t find any words as he processes this all. “Then why are you here?” 

The café is cheap and not great quality, which is why LeFou always assumed a man like him never came in. Most of the flavored drinks taste too artificial, and the coffee seems to have a constant burnt aftertaste. Yet business somehow did well enough to stay open. 

The man sinks, lips slumping into a pout. “My usual coffee shop is closed today.” 

“Maurice’s Bookstore and Café?” LeFou guesses, and isn't surprised by the man’s automatic nod. 

The bookstore is right down the road, and makes delicious quality coffee. It’s pricier, but worth it. Their pastries are also incredible because they are all made from scratch. The most beautiful girl in town is also the daughter of Maurice and works there everyday, which definitely plays a role in attracting business. 

And by the way his eye’s lit up at the store’s name, it was not because of his lust for coffee. 

The man leans onto the counter. “Yes, there was a lengthy note on the door. Something about her father,” He waves his hand again, roughly exhaling, “I don't really know nor care, I didn't bother to read it.” Dead serious his glare bores into LeFou’s pupils as he growls, “I hate reading.” 

There’s such an intense passion for his hatred in his last statement that LeFou can’t help his snicker that warps into full blown laughter. 

The man lifts a brow again, and LeFou rushes to control himself. He’s gasping for air, leaning against the countertop as his shoulders tremble. 

It really isn't that funny, but the man’s face! 

LeFou shakes his head, mist licking his eyes. Blinking the tears back, he sighs. “Ah I’m sorry, it’s just I’ve never heard someone hate reading so passionately.” He giggles airily, the man’s previous expression on repeat through his mind. 

The whispers of a grin wrestle with the corners of the man’s lips, and LeFou can see the man struggling to keep his face neutral. His grin breaks free and he shakes his head, eyes shinning with pride of making a stranger genuinely laugh. 

“It’s just,” The man rest his elbows on the counter, shaking his head. “she's always got her nose so far wedged into a book. It’s a wonder I even know what she looks like, between that and that curtain of hair she keeps in front of her face!” It’s strange for him to talk negatively of Belle. He’s never done so out loud, and rarely does in his head. Yet with this man he doesn't feel bad. It actually feels nice. 

LeFou nods and grins, remembering the time he ventured in the cozy store. That was Belle all right. 

He had like Maurice a lot. Sure he was a bit strange, which everyone knows, but LeFou could see he was kind and meant well. Belle seemed… nice. She hadn’t been intentionally rude to him, but then again he hadn’t flirted with her like the rest of the town did. At the counter she keeps stacks of books with her, reading between each customer. Her eyes are glued to the words, so entranced that he has seen people have to physically tap her to get her attention. LeFou didn’t blame her though. The books seemed to be a buffer for her, an excuse to keep men away. A buffer that works extremely well for her, while also giving her pleasure. 

LeFou is going to have to read the sign when his shift is over to make sure Maurice is okay. 

“I’ll admit, though,” The man leans closer to LeFou, pupils sparkling as he smirks for the umpteenth time. “it’s refreshing to be able to see the barista’s face without having to maneuver around and compete with some book.”

The man's bold statement snaps all of LeFou’s thoughts on hold.

Is he… flirting with him? 

No, no way. 

He’s just joking. 

A man like him would never be interested in someone like him. Besides he likes Belle! 

…Right? He goes down to see her everyday, so he has too. He’s just frustrated and tired, he doesn't mean what he’s saying about her or him. 

But LeFou still counts it as a win. The man complimented him! 

He quickly looks down at the cup to hide his shy smile and the pink rose dusting across his cheeks, but the man sees it. 

The man’s heart feels raw and hurts, but at the same time good like it’s shedding old chilled dead skin. It’s something that he never has felt before, but instead of his heart halting it speeds up. He’s actually not afraid like he always assumed he would be. 

Well of course he’s not, he’s Gaston. 

Outwardly he smirks. “Gaston.” He purrs. 

LeFou blankly looks back up at the man, head tilting ever so slightly as his brows crumble.

Gaston’s smirk stretches, and he gestures to the cup. “My name.” 

LeFou’s lips form a small o as he exhales, nodding and lifting his marker to the cup. 

G a s t…

LeFou’s marker stops, bleeding a hole into the right side of the t. 

Is there another t? 

Hm. 

Right… 

Gahstahn. Gaaahhstounn? He rolls it around on his tongue without vocalizing, but with each time he says his name he gets more and more confused. 

“Problem?” Gaston leans close, peering over LeFou’s hand to his cup.

“Ah, no no.” LeFou holds the cup closer to him and tilts it so he can only see it. “Just, uh, blanked out.” He drags out his words to stall time, but is still no closer to figuring out where to begin to spell this man’s name. 

“You don't know how to spell my name.” Gaston clicks his tongue, shaking his head in convincingly feigned disappointment. 

“It’s printed on every magazine in all caps on the front page, and in all the handlers of my social media. On every bus side and billboard! Type G into google and I’m the third result.” 

Gaston leans closer, and LeFou’s face is dangerously close to resembling a tomato. He scrawls on another t, and adds an a h n. 

Gaston hums, frowning. “Mm nope, too bad.” 

LeFou groans, reaching for another cup. Gaston lies his hand over LeFou’s, slinking it down to grip his wrist and enclose over his hand. Sharp shocks erupt on his porcelain skin, and Gaston’s smirk widens at feeling the man’s pulse kicking under the pads of his fingers. “Wouldn't want to waste cups would you?” 

He intensely stares at LeFou whose stiffened and is refusing to look at him. He can see that the tips of LeFou’s ears are ruby. Rubbing the inside of LeFou’s wrist, his other hand smoothly slides his ten dollar bill off the counter. As he removes his grip on LeFou’s wrist he places the ten into LeFou’s hand, closing his hand for him. He places his other hand over their hands, “Keep the change, my friend.” He drops his hand, moving to the end of the counter. 

Already LeFou misses the heat, and the rough large hands of Gaston’s. LeFou splutters, attempting to say he isn’t allowed to accept tips, but Gaston’s face hardens. Clearly he’s leaving no room for arguments. LeFou slips the ten into his apron pocket. 

He starts up the expresso machine, the contraption churning as he keeps a steady hold on the cup. The only thing that seems to be keeping him steady. 

“You never answered my question. How can you possibly not know who I am?” Gaston tilts his elbows against the end counter, drifting most of his weight onto them as he watches LeFou prepare his drink. 

“I don’t have any forms of social media, and I don't really keep up with that many celebrates in general. I never ride busses, or really pay attention to billboards.” He pours the coffee into the expresso shots as he speaks, back turned to Gaston. 

“How can you not have social media?” 

Of course that’s all he picked up. 

LeFou simpers, jostling his shoulders in a shrug. “I don't really feel a need for it I guess.” 

Gaston shakes his head, glancing down at his phone that is blowing up from notifications on every social media platform. Gaston couldn't go a day without it all. 

LeFou slides his coffee to him, dreading the end to their conversation. 

This is it, he’ll never talk to this man again. 

Gaston’s fingers skid against his as he takes the cup. He twists the white cup to the side with the incorrect spelling of his name towards him, lips tilting as he exhales a laugh.

He waves the cup. “Better luck next time LeFou.” 

Without so much as a glance towards LeFou he saunters out of the caffe.

Next time. 

LeFou sags against the counter, a long exhale breaking out of him. He wouldn't have believed this all just happened if it weren't for the heat from Gaston’s skin running circles around his hand, and the crisp ten in his apron pocket. He fondles the cash with his fingers, staring as the man’s, no Gaston’s, form vanishes. 

What just happened? 

As Gaston walks down the street his smirk grows into a simper that wrinkles the edges of his mouth. He takes a sip of the coffee, and smoke floods up into his nostrils. 

It’s… not bad. 

Gaston gags slightly, missing Belle’s coffee. 

He holds the cup out, angling it so that his name shows, and snaps a photo. He saves the photo while tossing the coffee into a nearby trashcan.

LeFou is completely worth it. 

He sharply turns a corner, beginning to take the longer route to Maurice’s Bookstore and Café. 

He can’t wait to tell Belle.

**Author's Note:**

> Any feedback is appreciated and means so much to me, thank you! 
> 
> I'm writing a sort of prologue to this next from Gaston's P.O.V. of before he enters the coffee shop, which I'll be posting in this series as a one-shot :) I would have posted that first but just got the idea to do this, and I've been dying to post this. 
> 
> My tumblr: gafou1


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